I’ve never met a writing rule I didn’t like. I know that makes me an anomaly among teenagers of the nineteen-sixties, but there it is. Rules are typically easy to follow, predictable in their rewards or consequences, and predominantly fair.

Did I write that? How have I become this complacent, calm, accepting senior citizen? Oh yes, better living through chemistry. After the angst of being a college student who was never intended to be such … after the years of furthering my education while parenting and teaching full time … after my first meltdown career that preceded my long-term faculty position … after my reluctant retirement due to a medical condition I have yet to reconcile with my sense of self … after four years of compliance with a prescription of self injections that I hated, feared and doubted … after my rebellious rejection of said prescription in the face of self-recrimination for having allowed others to dictate my fate … after finding a way to self-publish seven books within that first year of retirement … after starting a mystery series with one and one half books completed … after my manic denial of age and impairment when I opened my own small business … after investing more money than I ever would have done in my pre-diagnosis life chasing a dream … after defying the predicted fatigue by spending so much energy developing my quilt shop … have I yielded to age after all, finding comfort in following boundary-reinforcing rules?

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